


of hands and their callouses, or lack thereof

by marblecut (sunbound)



Category: One Piece
Genre: M/M, Wound Tending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27463933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbound/pseuds/marblecut
Summary: “Give me your hand.”“You know I can perfectly do it myself, right?”“Just give me your damn hand, shitty cook,” and despite Sanji’s annoyed grumbling, he complies.
Relationships: Roronoa Zoro/Vinsmoke Sanji
Comments: 12
Kudos: 101





	of hands and their callouses, or lack thereof

**Author's Note:**

> i watched sanji kick away a sword, saying his hands are only for cooking and then This happened. i guess this is my life now, just watching op and writing ficlets for it

Zoro doesn’t bother opening his eye when he hears the cook clicking his tongue in annoyance, nor does he show any intention of moving an inch from his position on the galley’s couch, stretched out and arms folded under his head, when he realises the constant click of a knife against the cutting board has stopped. “Fuck,” Sanji curses under his breath; still not worth it. The knife clatters against the counter, tap water starts running and Sanji hisses sharply.

Zoro opens his eye, blinks to adjust to the light coming from the kitchen. “What are you whining about?” he grumbles.

“Shut up, Moss Head,” but the cook’s words carry no real animosity so Zoro sits up, scratching his head and yawning. “The knife slipped,” he offers as a proper answer.

Zoro grins. “Rookie mistake?” he teases, but Sanji doesn’t bother looking away from his task of washing his wounded hand. “I’ll get Chopper,” he says, getting up and heading to the door.

“He’s not on the ship, idiot, remember?” Sanji sighs, shutting off the tap and pressing a towel to his palm. It comes out red. “Nami-san took him and Franky and Luffy down to the island to fetch supplies.”

Zoro just stands there in the middle of the galley, the aborted task leaving him floating about for a second, sleep still slowing down his action-reaction reflexes. “I’ll do it, then,” and the indignant sound Sanji makes is enough to make Zoro smirk, setting him adamant on doing it out of spite now. Before the cook can protest, he leaves the kitchen and heads to the medbay, looking for which cupboard Chopper keeps his first-aid kit and antiseptics.

When he gets back to the galley, he finds Sanji sitting on the couch, legs crossed and cigarette hanging from his lips. “Oh you remembered to get antiseptics,” he notes. “Maybe you’re not as dumb as we all thought.”

Zoro considers giving him the finger, but opts for tossing Chopper’s first-aid kit onto his stomach, causing Sanji to hunch forward and curse at him in between his coughing. “Oops,” he mocks as he sits down beside him. “Give me your hand.”

“You know I can perfectly do it myself, right?”

“Just give me your damn hand, shitty cook,” and despite Sanji’s annoyed grumbling, he complies.

Sanji’s hands are smooth against Zoro’s calloused ones, soft where his are rough. _These are the hands of a cook,_ he thinks. He thinks of dinner and lunch and breakfast and midnight snacks, how Sanji never complains about the toil of putting food on a table of nine or fifteen or a hundred, regardless of the hour of the day, regardless of what absurd dish Luffy wants. _These are the hands of a cook,_ and so these are hands that nourish, that _create:_ flour, milk, eggs, sugar, butter, baking powder and vanilla extract into a cake, into something more, and Zoro inevitably looks at his own hands, calloused from training, from wielding his swords.

There’s a correlation in there somewhere, maybe. Sanji is no freer from sins or blood than any of them, but his hands are, so Zoro holds them and thinks, _These are the hands of a cook._

“Oi,” Sanji calls, smacking him in the head. “Get on with it or I’ll do it myself.”

“Don’t you have any manners?” he growls back, pulling the cook’s hand more strongly than necessary, smirking when an annoyed _Ouch_ interrupts Sanji’s _Oh look who’s talking—_

It’s a silent business, then. Sanji eventually relaxes and lies back against the couch’s headrest, when he’s convinced the swordsman won’t do a shitty job at tending to the cut. He loosens his tie with his free hand before flicking his cigarette over the ashtray, Zoro dabbing the antiseptic-soaked cotton at the wound. It’s peaceful, almost, or as peaceful as it gets between them, shared silence and a touch that doesn’t really count any more than a fight counts as touching.

He unrolls the bandage, holds it in place against Sanji’s palm. A touch, but stripped of the unconditionality of affection, coated by the surety of purpose. He wraps it around, then, one hand working on tightly pulling the fabric across the skin, the other lightly steading Sanji’s in place, fingertips against knuckles. A touch, _but._

Zoro ties the bandage neatly and the cooks stubs his cigarette onto the ashtray. “Seems like you did know what you were doing,” he comments, inspecting the work.

“You owe me a bottle of _sake_ now,” Zoro says as he packs up Chopper’s kit.

“The hell I do,” Sanji rolls his eyes. “I didn’t even want you to do it.”

They both know Sanji will get him a bottle of _sake,_ though, the same way they both know that, for all of the cook’s complaints, Zoro always finds a glass of water and a plate of food when he’s locked up in the gym training. The same way they both know that Sanji left for Whole Cake Island to protect them all, that he would sacrifice himself in the blink of an eye, if it meant his friends would be alright. The same way they both know that, for all of the attitude he puts up, Sanji _cares—_ cares in a way only someone who’d feed an entire town in exchange of nothing but knowing that hunger doesn’t gnaw on its people’s stomachs could.

Zoro looks at Sanji’s bandaged hand and thinks, _These are the hands of a cook._ “I want it until the end of the week,” he says before leaving the kitchen.

Later that day, when Chopper is back and everyone is sitting at the table, laughing and talking and eating, Brook humming his latest creation to Robin, Usopp and Luffy mesmerised at Franky’s newest trick, Sanji puts down a plate on the table and his bandaged hand catches Chopper’s attention. “Did you get hurt?”

“It was nothing,” Sanji smiles, absentmindedly rubbing the spot. “Knife slipped.”

“Sorry I wasn’t here,” he apologises around the food in his mouth. “Good thing you had someone here to take care of you,” and Zoro almost chokes on his beer. “Our friends are always reliable and—” Chopper turns to him, frowning at the swordsman's coughing fit, “Are you okay, Zoro?”

Behind the doctor, Sanji has a shit-eating grin on his face, arching that stupid curly eyebrow of his, and Zoro can’t do much but glare at him before he disappears into the kitchen again.

**Author's Note:**

> this is set on the alternate universe where zoro knows how to bake a cake.
> 
> as always, you can kinda find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/junitonin) and on [tumblr](https://floresetcorvi.co.vu/)!


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